Sure, I can breathe fire. It’s surprising how seldom that comes in handy when you have to change into a two ton dragon to do it. Melt a couple of your were-kin’s barbecues and you don’t get invited back much. It makes for a lot of awkward questions in the neighbourhood, and crackpot journalists hanging around looking for monsters.
The were-pups get all the attention, of course, and they complain a lot, but they bring it on themselves, really, with all that baying they do when the moon is full. They could learn something about secrecy from wyrms. They never do, though.
…
“Wyrm und Drang”
About the story: Sometimes the title comes first. So what is drang, in an SFF sense?